Oliver Twist and the Revenge of Zebedias Quigsnip Prologue and Chapter
by GenXer2
Summary: Please read this chapter BEFORE the story right above it. Sorry for all the difficulty I had posting these separate chapters. A villian so evil that he was written out of the story has returned for revenge.


**Oliver Twist**

**The Revenge of Mr. Zebedias Quigsnip**

Prologue

Edgar A. Poe sat back in his armchair in his comfortable Baltimore home on the twenty-second of October, 1842.

A large fire danced in his hearth. Outside his window, the full moon rode shining upon the drifting gray clouds.

It had been just over a fortnight that he'd received word that Charles Dickens had been unable to fulfill his promise. Or so he'd said in the letter.

Nine months ago, Mr. Poe and Mr. Dickens had met in a grand hotel in Philadelphia. They had shared a great many of things over a bottle of good old brandy, like the New Poor Laws in England, and the issues of copyright, how Dickens was continually plagued by plagiarized versions of his stories and many other things.

Finally Poe let the British author in on what he'd wanted most out of this discussion—that he might be influential in getting _Tales of the Grotesque and Arabesque_ published in Great Britain. Dickens had promised he'd do his best to that end.

It had long been Poe's dream to get his tales printed overseas. Sales were fairy poor here in America. And the critics hadn't been kind to him at all. Poe was now infamous for his lack of charity to other writers. Perhaps they thought they were only giving him a dose of his own?

The wind roared suddenly outside, from behind the window pane. Poe's black eyes darted about the shadows of the room as he sat thee deep in troubled thought.

And pondered…

Poe was skeptical, to say the least of Dickens failure to find him a publisher. He was the inimitable Mr. Dickens, after all. If he couldn't, who could? Both men had admired the other, and since Mr. Dickens had made his American excursion, Poe felt that the two of them were fast on their way to becoming friends. Maybe Dickens was sincere, and he'd tried his best.

But it was an incident which had occurred just prior to Dickens leave of Philadelphia that caused Poe to doubt it.

Before they parted company Mr. Poe had let Mr. Dickens in on an ''experiment'' of his. Both of them were interested in the topics of hypnosis and spiritualism. He drove Dickens to a house where he claimed to have placed a man in a deep trance while upon his deathbed. Thus, the fellow was caught in the state halfway between this world and the realm beyond it. He had remained this way, he told Dickens, for a year. While in this state, Poe informed his friend, the man might be able to divulge secrets of the afterlife unknown to the living.

Dickens, naturally, with his keen interest in spiritualism, was more than eager to see this accomplishment, even though he warned Poe that he was still a skeptic when it came to these things.

So they met at the man's house. And there he was, the man deep in a trance. Poe uttered a few words of mesmerism, and the man spoke, claiming he could see heaven and hell. Dickens, astonished, had pulled back the covers—

And the man was gone—in his place lay the mouldering remains of a year-old-corpse!

Dickens, mortified, had run from the room in terror, and that was the last he'd heard from him, until this letter.

And Poe had had a hearty good laugh.

It had all been an elaborate practical joke. Poe and a friend of his, playing the man in the bed, had staged the whole thing. Dickens was an amateur illusionist in his own right, or so Poe had heard, and it amused him to no end that he had been taken in so completely.

Only now it appeared that Dickens had become so distraught over the incident that he had purposefully fudged on getting his _Tales_ printed in Britain.

Or so Poe very strongly suspected.

He _regr_etted his ill-fated joke, of course, but, he reasoned, that hardly excused Dickens form breaking his promise. And if he couldn't have Tales printed in England, well, Poe wanted with all his heart the next best thing.

Revenge.

But revenge how? And to what end? Poe cooked up many bizarre and fitting methods of vengeance in his stories, but outside of those, the only manner of revenge Poe was capable of inflicting on anyone was with his pen. So, yes, that would have to do—he'd savage Dickens latest work with all the poisoned fury he could muster! Dickens might be in England, but his pen he knew, would carry weight. And Dickens had soured his own reputation here in America, with those opinions he'd been spouting in _American Letters_, and _Martin Chuzzlewit_—

All at once, the front door blew open. It was thrown open, on its hinges, apparently by a titantic gust of wind.

The blaze in the hearth guttered and went out.

Poe raised himself, shakingly from his chair, and gasped at the figure he beheld filling up the doorway.

It was a man…or at least, appeared to be a man. He stood at least six feet tall, maybe more. He had on a black top hat, and a dark cloak flew about his shoulders in the breeze. The rest of his attire was that of a gentleman or aristocrat. His face was unnaturally pale and cadaverously gaunt. And his eyes, sunk deep within his hollow sockets, burned with an energy that almost seemed to throw sparks as his gaze settled upon Mr. Poe.

''Who …are you?'' Mr. Poe demanded of the tall stranger.

''Who am I?'' the stranger answered, his voice unnervingly soft as silk. ''Why, I'm the man who answers those who thirst for revenge. And you do want revenge, don't you, Mr. Poe? On a certain former friend of yours, Mr. Charles Dickens? I can provide that revenge.''

''You can?'' Poe was dazed and shaken by this man's untimely and unexpected arrival. But the man's burning gaze—did he detect a small quantity of actual fire, dancing within those eyes?-and his tone of voice somehow worked on his fevered brain to convinced that the man spoke the truth. This man, whether angel or demon, could grant his wish of revenge.

''I can,'' the tall man grinned. And here he revealed his array of white, white teeth to be pointed hideously, like those belonging to a shark. Poe could tell—or at least he assumed by their formation—that the man had filed his teeth. But to what mad purpose, he could not guess. ''Tell me vengeance is what you wish.''

''Yes !'' Poe raved ''Vengeance is what I want!''

The man reached into the pocket of his flapping coat, and pulled forth what appeared to be a stone. He held it out for Poe to see.

It was a stone, rough-cut, composed of some rock suggesting basalt. And on it were a number of strange, archaic inscriptions. Poe peered at them, but they appeared to be in no language he had ever before encountered.

''Go on,'' said the apparition, ''Place your hand on the stone—and tell it who you want vengeance upon.''

Poe placed his hand on the stone and said, ''I wish for revenge on Mr. Charles Dickens!''

At the precise moment his hand touched the stone, Poe felt an electric-tingle surge through his fingers. With a gasping cry, he drew away his hand.

The man grinned once more. ''Very good, Mr. Poe. You've made a wise choice, if I do say so, myself. '' He replaced the stone in his pocket, and turned to leave. Then he turned over his shoulder and said,

''Oh, by the way, Mr. Poe, you might want to know just what manner of revenge you'll be having on your former friend. '' He pointed the in the direction of the fireplace, which suddenly blazed to life once more.

However, this time-

Poe turned in astonishment to see an actual moving _picture, _an actual living breathing picture, there in the flames.

This was no cinematograph, for the picture was in full, livid color.

It depicted a scene of London, or what looked to be London form the pictures Poe had seen, the city where Charles Dickens resided. The streets were thick with carriages, bustling crowds, and hoards of ragged, thieving urchins.

''I know what you're thinking,'' purred the stranger. ''And you're wrong. But you're almost right. That city is indeed London, England. But not the same London your friend hails from.''

Poe turned to look at him in confusion.

''You see, there are other worlds than this one-other realities, other Londons, other Americas. And this one I'm showing to you happens to be the London where your friend's characters reside, the one where all of his stories unfold. What does this have to do with your revenge, you ask? Why, what better revenge than to distort the intent Mr. Dickens has for his characters. He planned for all the good, surviving characters from his novels _Oliver Twist_ and _Nicholas Nickleby_ to live prosperous lives after their tales were finished. Well…I have other plans for them I'm afraid.''

Suddenly the full horror of what he had done crashed full upon Mr. Poe's mind. He didn't know who this man—this _creature_—was, but this was a whole other world he had a glimpse of here, and the people in it were _real_, and he had created a dire threat to them—there were now countless innocent lives at stake! ''No! I didn't want revenge! Not like this! _Not like this!''_

The stranger gave him another one of his terrible smiles. ''Very sorry, Mr. Poe, but I'm afraid what's done is done.''

The man whirled around, then looked back one more time at the distraught Mr. Poe. ''Oh, by the way,'' he grinned nastily, ''What I first said about helping you with your revenge—I lied.''

With that, the stranger whirled into the night.

1

The boy woke up bathed in sweat in the darkness of his bedchamber.

His heart thumped wildly in his small breast, as stared into the shadows, his blood roaring in his ears.

A nightmare…another nightmare.

That's what it had to have been.

But it seemed so real. It had been the same, the very same dream he'd experienced over and over for the past few weeks.

For nearly three years now, the boy had been leading a pleasant life with his guardian in this rich mansion outside of London.

But now that the dreams had started, the boy began to dread for himself in the near future. If dreams were repeated as, he'd read in articles in the paper about spiritualism, they might prove to be premonitions of the future.

The dream-or dreams-always followed the same patterns. There were slight differences, but their basic patterns remain the same.

_Oliver__!_

_Oliver!_

The voice was calling his name over a vast distance. How he knew that voice, how its familiarity tormented him!

Again Oliver saw the Jew, Fagin, leering at him in the dancing shadow' of his fireplace…

Again he saw his half-brother, the man with the sinister birth-mark, cursing him, and promising his death…

Again he relived the experience of Bill Sikes threatening him with his pistol if he did not agree to burglarize the house were his aunt lived, placing the horrid barrel of the weapon under Oliver's chin…

And there were other memories some even more horrid, each fleeting, and merging randomly with the next in bewildering succession. And he saw, in his dream, the most horrid of all, yet one he had never actually witnessed apart from it; Sikes' murder of the Nancy, the one member of Fagin's gang who had actually taken pity on him.

Oliver had wept for days, knowing she had given her life for him, and here was nothing he could ever do to pay her back.

The villains were now either dead or had been sent to jail for their crimes. But that didn't change things.

He'd been tormented by his knowledge of the event ever since it had happened. In spite of the warm hugs and friendships from the people who'd saved from the filth-ridden London underworld, in spite of his now-rich surroundings, it was the one horrid transpiration that continued to haunt him. But he'd never experienced dreams—at least, not like this, until now.

The voice calling his name was Nancy's. Where was she now? Oliver had been told she was heaven now. It seemed like the only place she _could_ be, having sacrificed herself to save a poor orphan boy like himself. But was she? Oliver had heard wild stories of ghosts shackled in clanking iron chains which haunted the great mansions. Some stories told of their moaning of their past crimes while on earth. And Nancy and not led an exactly good life, even though she'd apparently redeemed herself.

Oliver had mercifully never seen her death, or her corpse, though he'd visited her pauper's grave many, many times.

But in the dream, he saw Sikes bring his club down on her, saw the vivid crimson of her blood.

But wherever _he_ was in the dream, he could only watch he could get there in time to save her, he couldn't stop Sikes…

And the scene of horror was gone, and Oliver woke up, drenched in and shivering in bed, his hair clinging to his forehead, his breath in ragged gasps.

Nancy's voice..it had sounded so real. That was how dream always started. Why had she been calling him? To save her? No. The volume and tone of her cries indicated something else.

Perhaps the dreams were brought on by Oliver's sense of guilt.

But he the boy knew-_knew—_the Nancy's cries had been a warning.

A warning that some dire calamity was about to befall him.

"Please, sir, I want some more."

The next was bright and sunny, dispelling Oliver's fears.

He was seated at the long table in the dining hall.

Instantly, the butler appeared, bearing a large silver tureen of hot, spicy soup.

He carried the bowl in as it steamed merrily, and set down in front of the boy at the table.

The boy was twelve-years-old, frail, and to every appearance, he looked a wealthy young lad. He was dressed in a wine-colored jacket, with gold buttons, and gold-embroidered lapels, over white silk shirt with puffed sleeves and a lace cravat. Oliver leaned over and sniffed the soup with his delicate, up-turned nose.

The scent of grilled sausage and succulent herbs was very enticing, especially if you happened to be as hungry as the boy was at the moment. He was very often hungry, in fact, in spite of the fact of his obvious wealthy status, due to the many years he had spent in London's ill-conditions.

The steam, and obvious heat stung his eyes, and he drew back, blinking rapidly.

"A bit too hot, is it, Master Oliver?" the butler asked.

The boy looked up. "Yes, sir. I think I'll have to let it cool before I eat it sir."

"Shall I take it back, then, young sir?"

"Oh, no, that's quite alright. Just leave it here, I can wait."

The boy had a small, pathetic face with wide eyes that were both very large and very sad. Just looking at him told you that he had witnessed and experienced far more than his share of sadness, heartbreak, and ill-treatment then any child of his meager years ever should. He was a very thin and frail youngster, partially the result of heredity, but mostly the result of years of near-starvation and malnourishment. His longish hair was cut in bangs across his forehead in the manner of workhouse urchins such as this boy had once been.

"Very well, Master Oliver," the butler replied. "What else might I serve you for this afternoon's repast?"

"Oh, I'll have anything, sir. I love everything Mr. Sowyer fixes." Jeremy Sowyer happened to be the name of the chef who prepared all of Oliver's meals.

"Hmmm. Shall it be roast pheasant in Parmesan sauce? Or grilled leg of lamb? Or hot rhubarb pudding? Or—"

"Any of it, sir," Oliver grinned. "Or just leave it to Mr. Sowyer"

"Very well, young master."

The butler departed the great dining hall for the kitchens , while Oliver, seated alone at the long table gingerly gave his soup a taste. It was spicy and delicious, but still very hot.

Oliver's last name, as you might have guessed by now, was "Twist." Or at least it had been for the first nine years of his life. The boy wasn't quite certain what he was to be called now.

For nearly two years now, Oliver had enjoyed a comfortable, and abundantly luxurious life with his benefactor, Mr. George Brownlow, in his prosperous estate in Bloomsbury on the west side of London. Mr. Brownlow had rescued Oliver from the squalid streets of London's crime-infested East End. He had not only saved from the terrible choice of a life of crime vs. a slow death from starvation. He had also taken upon himself to recover the boy's rightful heritage.

Now Oliver was not only legally adopted by a prominent bourgeois family, he was also the legal heir to great fortune. All those dark times were far behind him now.

Oh, but how those times still give the boy nightmares even into the present day! Oliver knew he would never truly escape his past—the years of drudgery and starvation in the Parish workhouse, under Mr. and Mrs. Bumble and the other brutish supervisors, with the meager meals of one bowl of thin, greasy soup a day, the frequent floggings. His dreadful but mercifully brief apprenticeship to the Sowerberrys and the bullying of the sadistic Noah Claypool and his lover Charlotte. His falling in with the gang of young pick-pockets in London, led by the great old father rat himself, the Jew Fagin. And worst of all, his recapture by the thieves after his first rescue by Mr. Brownlow. Oh! He still re-lived in his mind's eye his first encounter with the brutal alcoholic burglar Bill Sikes, as the man bashed him on the head and dragged him back to Fagin's lair. And then Fagin had thrashed him within an inch of his life, and might have inadvertently killed him had it not been for Nancy's intervention.

Nancy….the one person among Fagin's circle of criminals who had shown him genuine kindness during that time.

Through Nancy's sacrifice, Brownlow was able to apprehend Monks and restore Oliver's heritage. But Oliver remained horrified and sickened by what his heritage had cost the only person among Fagin's rogues who truly cared for him. He would have gladly given his newfound inheritance, even the life of health and happiness he enjoyed on Brownlow's estate, and yes, even his own life, if he could only undo what had befallen her.

But there was nothing he could do. Sikes himself had met a fitting and terrible end, but Nancy was still gone forever, and there was no way in heaven that Oliver could ever repay her kindness.

The reason for his current spate of terrible nightmares?

How the boy's heart ached whenever he thought of what Nancy had done for him, and the dreadful price she had paid for it.

Brownlow's butler returned, now carrying a great silver platter with a roasted leg of lamb lathered in spicy Parmasen sauce, sliced ham, and a silver bowl of thick, spiced rhubarb pudding. All of this he set before Oliver.

"I do hope you enjoy it, young, sir. Mr. Sowyer very much enjoyed preparing g it. He is wonderful at the culinary arts. French he is, by birth, you know."

"He certainly is wonderful," Oliver agreed.

"I've never had lamb or pudding done better than by him," said the butler.

The boy closed his eyes, and inhaled the wonderful fragrance of the food, as he often did. Oliver allowed his taste buds to fairly scream with anticipatory delight. Then, without waiting further, he fell to with gusto, devouring Sowyer's repast with relish. Oliver had grown strong and healthy ever since his rescue. His benefactors made certain he was given a diet of rich, nourishing, healthy food everyday. But Oliver's years of near-starvation in the workhouse had nonetheless taken their toll on him. He was still thin and frail, and even occasionally suffered from dizzy spells, though nothing like the torment of hunger he had been forced to endure for most of his life. Dr. Losberne, his aunt's family physician, had the opinion that Oliver would always likely be thin, and might not live to a ripe old age, given his earlier treatment in the workhouse.

But Oliver determined to live his life to the fullest, however long or short it might prove to be. He enjoyed all of the rich meals prepared for him. He had become preoccupied with the plethora of books in the Brownlow estate's library. Mr. Brownlow himself was an avid collector of books, and had many, many rare editions. In the years following his adoption by Mr. Brownlow, Oliver had found treasure upon literary treasure to enjoy.

Oliver had polished off all of his meal, and had gulped down nearly all of the soup, when Mrs. Bedwin, the maid, entered.

"Oliver, my dear, have you finished already?"

"Yes, ma'am," Oliver told her.

"Well, I think you're eating a bit too fast dear. You might slow down and enjoy it more."

"Oh, I do enjoy it, ma'am," Oliver said. "It's just that I'm—

Mrs. Bedwin came over and hugged him. "Yes, dear. I know. You're still so very hungry."

"Oh, yes, ma'am," Oliver confirmed.

"Now then," said Mrs. Bedwin, "Remember your aunt shall be visiting us today."

"Yes," said "Oliver. Rose—my dear Rose! Will she be here soon?'

"I dare say she will be."

"I am so looking forward to seeing her."

Oliver followed Mrs. Bedwin out into the vast drawing room. Mr. Brownlow was seated in his favorite armchair near the great hearth reading the latest edition of _Bentley's Miscellany_. The old gentleman lowered the paper when he saw the maid and Oliver come in.

"Oliver!" Mr. Brownlow exclaimed. "I've just been reading the latest story by Mr. Copperfield."

"He's the gentleman who writes stories for the paper, isn't he?"

"I've been thinking that you might enjoy it, seeing how you've so much taken to books. And also—it's about a poor boy who has to work in a blacking factor, because his father is in debt."

"A blacking factory?" Oliver asked.

That's a place where they make shoe polish." said Mr. Brownlow. "If conditions are anything like he says they are—well, they are really appalling. I never realized just how dreadful the workhouses were either—and I wouldn't have, I dare say, if it were not for you, my boy."

Oliver sat down in one of the chairs. "I would like to do something about it, sir. I mean the workhouses, and the other children like me who are still there."

"I believe that someday you will, my boy."

"Certainly you will," said Mrs. Bedwin, laying a hand on Oliver's shoulder, "You're going to get a fine education. And once you come of age, you're going to see to it that those dreadful places are shut down."

"I shouldn't have to wait until then." said Oliver. "I have a home now—but what about all of _them?_

"Indeed, you should not need to wait," said Mr. Brownlow. "you've been through far more then enough, Oliver. For now, let _me _concern myself with those poor children. As you know I have money and resources enough to see that changes will be made. I have written Parliament already. In fact, next month I am to meet with some important statesmen on the continent."

"On the continent?' asked Mrs. Bedwin. "Where, on the continent, will we be going?"

"To Paris, to be exact. We will be discussing many concerns. Top on the list will be the situations of orphans—in Paris and in London. I think it will be wonderful that Oliver will be accompanying us. That's alright, isn't it Oliver? I could have you stay with your aunt while I am away."

"Oh, no," said Oliver. "I should so like to see Paris. But can't Rose come with us?"

"I don't see why not," said Brownlow, "So long as it is okay with her husband."

"I'm looking forward to it then," said Oliver.

"One thing I've been meaning to bring up, though," Brownlow said, "Is where to send you for your education. I first considered Dotheby's. But then there was that incident in the paper. No-no that place won't do at all. But there are two other fine schools I've come to consider. One is St. Jacobso's and the other is Wormbrand's they each have a highly distinguished reputation. I am certain that you would get along well there, Oliver. I happen to know the headmaster of Wormband Academy, and he is of impeachable character."

"I think that Oliver has largely educated himself, as much time as he spends in the library," said Mrs. Bedwin.

"That is true," said Mr. Brownlow, "But a former education is something the boy still needs. In particular if I am to send him to a university. It is my hope that he will one day graduate from Oxford."

"I would hope that I could," said Oliver.

"Shall I fetch us all some tea?" asked Mrs. Bedwin.

""Yes, please." said Oliver.

The maid departed the room. Mr. Brownlow looked sternly at Oliver. "There is one other thing I've been meaning to discuss with you, young Oliver."

"What is that?"

"It keeps slipping my mind. But talk of your future made me think of it just now. Your last name. In all the time you've lived with us, Oliver, we've never decided on what last name you wish to go by."

Oliver started suddenly. He hadn't thought about it much until this moment. He had always been uncomfortable with the name "Twist." It had been branded on him by the parish beadle, and seemed to suggest an absence of identity to him for most of his life; that he still retained it suggested to Oliver that he still was some sense hapless vagrant with no sense of who he really was, even with his true identity recovered. At the same time, though, that name _was_ a link to his past, and he didn't want to entirely disown the years of mistreatment and bewilderment he had been forced to endure. More than ever, Oliver wanted to be an example to other orphaned children. Once he came of age he would set out to change the "system" that Mr. Bumble had boasted of to him. Because of this Oliver felt that he _needed_ to retain his past because of this.

If he discarded the name "Twist"—he felt almost as though it was as though he were tossing his entire past away.

But then again, Mr. Brownlow had been so kind to him. Everything he now had, his life itself, he owed to his guardian. He therefore thought it must be only right if he were to take his guardian's rightful name as Oliver Brownlow.

But perhaps he should legally be known now as "Oliver Leeford." But though it caused Oliver some measure of guilt, he couldn't help associating his father's name with his half-brother, who had conspired to corrupt him.

Oliver thought it should be wonderful if he could take his dead mother's last name. But was that even possible, since they hadn't even been married?

"I'm…not sure," said Oliver. "But I'd so like to take my mother's name."

Brownlow's brow furrowed, and he was about to reply, when there came the rattling of a carriage from outside.

Oliver sprang up from his chair and ran to the door.

Mrs. Bedwin was just returning with the tea as Oliver undid the latch and flew open the door.

Rose Maylie and her husband Harold entered. Oliver flung himself into his aunt's arms. "Oh, Miss Maylie, Miss Maylie!" Oliver cried (he did so out of habit, as Rose and Harry were now happily married). "I'm so glad you came. Mr. Brownlow has been planning a trip to Paris. He wants us to go with."

"Well, Oliver," Harry said, smiling at the boy, "that sounds fine, so long as I make business arrangements."

"Paris!" exclaimed Rose. "I would like to see Paris as well. But it seems so very far. When do we start?"

"In two weeks," said Oliver.

"Well then we have time to make our plans," said Harry. "But today, I was hoping to take you and Mr. Brownlow on a ride in the country."

"Oh, Harry," said Oliver, "would we happen to be riding out-you know, where my mother—"

"Well, perhaps," Harry said. "Are you planning on stopping there?"

"Yes," said Oliver firmly, "Yes, I do want to stop there."

"Oh, Oliver…" said Rose, smoothing the boy's hair and hugging him.

"It's okay, Miss Rose," Oliver said. "I just need to visit her again. Mr. Bownlow and I were talking about her when you came, and it reminded me that I needed to see her."

Interlude

Jack Burton walked down the sidewalk toward the center for Interdimensional Exploration. He had visited it on more than one occasion. The man walked briskly; he was in his thirties, young-looking, with a gray business suit, and trimmed mustache. He was dressed, oddly, in a nineteenth century Victorian-style jacket, cravat, trousers and boots.

Solar cars whirred by on eighth street. Other vehicles zoomed by over head. It was a bright and bustling business day in the big city.

The Exploration Center was a large, and magnificent structure of metal and glass. Burton walked in the sliding metal doors, which whooshed shut in his wake. He walked across the marbled tiles, the footfalls of his black shoes echoing loudly in the vast open space. He took the black elevator up to the third floor of the building, then walked down the carpeted floor to he office of his employer. He rang the buzzer on the wall.

''Come in,''

Burton walked in, and sat down in front of the lacquered mahogany desk.

The man who sat before him was older, balding, in his fifties. ''Greetings, Jack, '' he said.

''I'm very eager to be here,'' Jack told him, ''But when I got your voice mail, I had no idea of the nature of our meeting. I have a feeling that I am to be sent somewhere. It's some place dangerous, I'll wager.''

''You're mission is full of danger,'' the other replied, '' but it is not the sort of danger you might be expecting. I know, by the way, that you are a literature major.''

''Well, yes, what does that have to do with anything?''

''It makes you uniquely qualified for this particular mission.''

Burton swallowed. ''You mean….you're sending me to…. one of _those_ worlds.''

''Indeed it does,''

Burton didn't know whether to be exhilarated or afraid. He had long heard of the literature worlds, everyone here had. But they weren't that well known to the public. The agency that deliberately covered up the existence of the literary worlds so that persons wouldn't be demanding to travel to their favorite authors' realities and meet their favorite characters. Sure, there was mammoth tourist potential here, and the amount of money could be staggering, but, as with the physics of any alternate reality, it wasn't yet known how time and space in worlds interacted, or what harm, if any, the presence of an alien human in an author's carefully constructed worlds could create.

It was not even known why or how a reality in which fictional stories and characters were real could exist. At first, some sort of hoax was suspected. But repeated worm tunneling had revealed the truth—there were scores of realities in which entirely fictitious events were actual historical realities, and characters who were fictitious in this world were real flesh and blood there.

Little else was known about the Literature Worlds, as they came to be called, but for what had thus far been observed about them, the authors who had ''created'' them did not appear to exist in the worlds themselves. Otherwise, history appeared to have proceeded pretty much the same as it had in what was now commonly termed ''mainstream'' reality. You'd find the same events had occurred, the same people existed, pretty much as they did in the mainstream—but the absence of the author, especially if he happened to be famous, as was the case for the worlds studied thus far, not to mention the presence of other people who were born into this world, was bound to have some affect on present and most probably future, history.

Burton's employer leaned forward at him. ''The world to which you are to be sent,'' he said, ''is that created by Charles Dickens, the nineteenth century novelist and social reformer.''

''That sounds wonderful. Oh, I really like Dickens.''

''Do you? That's good, especially if you've read him enough to be familiar with what happens in most of his books But this mission will be difficult-oh, it will.''

''You spoke of danger.''

''Indeed, and the danger may not be so much to you as to the inhabitants of the Dickensverse, so to call it. You've heard of the Grinning Man?''

Burton gave a shudder. Suddenly he was not so eager to go on a voyage to the Dickensverse.

''I…have. He's the …creature who is supposed to travel from one universe to the next, causing whatever chaos he can.''

''That's a fair description of him, yes. And, as you know, we've never been able to track.''

''What is he?''

''We still don't know, but he seems—as unlikely as it may sound-to be some sort of incarnation of evil. Some agents refer to him as a demon of sorts. I know, we're not supposed to believe in that kind of thing. But the description I fear seems apt enough. He doesn't seem to have any motive, save that of sowing wickedness.''

''What would he want with the Literary worlds? Is.. .is he in the Dickens universe now?''

The man nodded, ''But his presence was first detected in our universe, at some point in the past. We think that he paid a visited to Edgar Allen Poe in Baltimore.''

''_The_ Edgar Allen Poe?''

''The very same. As to what he was up to before that, what this business with Mr. Poe, the actual Mr. Poe and not of his creations, we don't know yet. But, tauntingly, he did leave us a cryptic message.'' Here the man passed a small envelope over the table to Burton.

The envelope had previously been opened. Burton took out the letter.

On the letter, in a scrawling hand was written-

The Plot-thread, unfinished

Will spell doom for all

''He left us a clue, a deliberate clue.''

''Likely to mislead us,'' said Burton.

''Not in the sense that it is a false clue, I don't think..''

''The plot thread,'' Burton mused.

''Remember, while Dickens was churning out tales, he left some plot holes unfinished, some thread dangling, as it were. The biggest was _The Mystery of Edwin Drood_, which he never finished. The Reaper caught up with him before he could.''

''But what could that mean, 'the plot thread will spell doom?'''

''I don't know, but we're certain it has something to do a plot Dickens never finished. Come with me.''

Burton followed him out of a back door and down a long hall. They walked down a steel corridor, where the worm-tunnel canons purred. Burton had a good idea where they were going; it was a place he had never been before, a place he had heard rumors of but never imagined—really—that he would be going there.

Two great iron doors swooshed open. In the corridor beyond, Burton could hear the pulse of gigantic generators. He knew what this meant. They were now entering a division of the huge complex that was off-limits to most agents and to all other employees—but obviously not to him, as he was being taken here now. The hum and throb of the great machinery gave testament to the tremendous energy needed to maintain the room they were about to enter.

For Burton knew that this room was_ itself_ a pocket dimension, existing not quite within mainstream reality. It was when the IE scientists had worm-tunneled into this pocket realm that they'd discovered it—an actual structure that appeared of human-made design, through that hardly seemed possible.

Burton and his employer now stood in front of two vast double doors. These, unlike the others in the facility, were not ultra-modern in construction, but were swinging doors of a substance that bore the appearance of wood, but had proven to be some other, utterly alien substance. The double doors were framed in heavy bronze, ornately molded with intricate design, and bore twin bronze knockers. The knockers and bronze borders appear to depict characters and events from the whole of literature, as likely they did. The great bolt and clasp, also of ornate bronze, appeared of strikingly ancient design as well.

Burton's employer pressed no button to access the chamber within; instead he drew back the heavy bolt, and pushed the door open.

Burton gasped as he beheld it at long last-a vast hallway with a mighty, arched ceiling, stretching into the far distance. At first, he was given the dizzying impression of infinitude, but he could see that another set of great doors was situated at the other end. A lush carpet of rich, royal red stretched from one end of the vast hall to the other.

Most wondrously of all, though, were the vast paintings, on either side of the great hall. Each appeared to have been painted in a rich palette of multi-hueed oils. Each one was set into a gold-enameled frame and stretched nearly from the red-carpeted floor to the arched ceiling.

There were too many of the great paintings for Burton to examine, but as they walked down the hall, he was able to take in the contents of a great many of them.

In one a bronzed fleshed warrior with reddish-blond locks wrestled with a weird, semi human monster with troll-like features in what looked like blazing mead-hall. In another, a knight in shining-white armor raised a shield with a blood-red cross and a sword to combat a scarlet, fire-belching dragon. Yet another, this placed sideways rather than up and down, depicted a parade of medieval-looking characters, a knight and monk and so forth, on a pilgrimage. Another depicted, a blue-black demonic figure rising form billowing flames. Another depicted a gathering of richly attired Elizabethans at a ball or party-gathering. Another showed three cackling witches, wart-faced and gathered about a seething cauldron on a wind-swept heath, while a red-haired armored warrior gazed at them from the foreground. This same painting depicted a blazing-eyed ghostly figure in royal attire in the upper-left-hand corner, perhaps a figure from another tale, and an evil-looked hunchback in the lower right.

There were more pictures, many more, one depicting a land of tiny people and land of giants, another depicting jousting knights in richly emblazoned armor, another depicted a grotesque half-human giant stretched out on a dissecting slab with an obsessed young scientist cutting him open.

And so on and so on.

But at last they came to the one that Burton realized was the most significant for his specific journey. He stood before the ceiling-height painting and examined it. This painting, too, depicted a multitude of a happenings and characters; it seemed to fairly burst with laughing, shouting, quarreling life. There were merry-faced men with bulbous noses and rosy cheeks; some smoked pipes and others wore stove-pipe hats. There were women two, of varying ages, most appearing sad-eyed and sympathetic, others seeming wicked and shrew-like. Some of the men were obviously villains by the look of them. The painting teemed, also, with wide-eyed innocents, mostly children, including a wistful, sad-eyed girl, looking up at a ragged, gray-bearded gentleman that might have been her grandfather. And there was a starved-looking pale-haired boy with the most extraordinarily sad-looking eyes. The boy was near the center of the entire painting. He was depicted holding up a wooden soup-bowl, and wore a pleading expression on his whey face.

Burton's employer pointed up at the forlorn boy in the painting.

''It is _that_ boy,'' he said, ''that we fear is the target of our friend the Grinning Man. I think, if you've read Dickens, or even know about his works marginally, you'll know who that boy is.''

''Yes, sir.''

''And realize that this boy will likely grow up to be great social reformer in this version of Victorian London. And please keep in mind that it is NOT the world we know. We suspect, that, for some reason, the Grinning Man is unable to create havoc in mainstream reality. But he can do so in these story worlds. Your mission—I think you know now what it is?''

''I do.''

''Have you brought all of your provisions?''

''Yes.''

''Remember, each painting is a portal to each respective world. But to find your way back, you'll need the worm-tunneler.''

Burton reached into his coat pocket and retrieved the device. It was a small, rectangular device of gold-white metal, with a few metal-wire projections.

''You may also need to tunnel through to other of the Literature Worlds.''

Burton replaced the device. ''You mean..you can get from the Dickensverse to..the Poeverse, or the Shakespeareverse.''

''You might need to, in fact, if the Grinning Man and his…associates- are on your tail.''

This made Burton uneasy. He wanted to ask who the "associates" might be, or, more importantly, why would he need to use the device to escape the Grinning Man, or need to do so by tunneling to other story worlds. But he only said, ''How am I to use the device to get to those other worlds, unless I tunnel back to this hall.''

''If you can, do so. But that depends on how far you've traveled from the point of space-time you first entered the Dickensverse. It would be faster to tunnel to which ever world is the nearest.''

''I don't understand.''

''It will be like…tunneling through one of the walls here. And into the other pictures.''

Burton frowned.

''You know how to work a worm-tunneler.''

''What if I end up in some other reality instead-I mean, somewhere that isn't a story world?''

''I don't think that will be possible. While in one story-reality, you may only travel to other story realities. Ready, now.''

''Humph.''

''You may then step into the painting.''

Burton, already dressed as Nineteenth century Victorian gentleman, and ready to blend in, reached out his hand. He touched the surface of the painting. It felt, at first, just as one would suspect; he felt the hard, slightly rough texture of dried oil.

Then—

The swirls of oil came alive , whirling and churning in front of his eyes. The painting's surface became suddenly fluid, the colors of the paint melting and swirling at the point where his fingers touched it.

Burton gave a surprised cry as he felt his hand push _through_ the surface as though into thick mud.

Or paint…

He cried out again as he felt his handed actually yanked into the painting itself. A flash of blue-white brilliance temporarily blinded him.

He had the sensation of being bodily pulled into the now-surging surface of the oil painting.

Another blinding flash.

Burton blinked away the shards of whiteness.

He was standing on a street in the midst of bustling Victorian London.


End file.
